


Nostrum

by singing_to_shipwreck (shocked_into_shame)



Category: What We Do in the Shadows (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, I don't know how else to tag this, Injury, M/M, Pre-Canon, discussions of virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:01:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25161310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shocked_into_shame/pseuds/singing_to_shipwreck
Summary: Only a week into his familiarhood, Guillermo slices open his palm on an old blade, and Nandor is unraveled.Based on a scene from Herzog's 1979 Dracula/Nosferatu adaptation "Nosferatu the Vampyre"
Relationships: Guillermo de la Cruz/Nandor the Relentless
Comments: 15
Kudos: 100





	Nostrum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [walkwithursus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus/gifts).



> https://youtu.be/jweLDWGtRXs <\-- this is based on this scene. Some of the dialogue is straight up ripped from it. Oops.
> 
> walkwithursus, this one's for you my friend. 
> 
> What do we want? Blood drinking!  
> When do we want it? Now!  
> Does it align with the later canon? Probably not!  
> Do we care? No!

Guillermo slides the rag along the shiny metallic surface of the ancient blade in his hand, its weight heavy in his arms. Once he’s satisfied with the glint of it, he positions it back in his holster and admires his handiwork. 

Cleaning this knife until it shone reminds him of his mamá, of using toothpaste to scrub the sterling silver platter that his abuelita passed down to her and his papá at their wedding. He smiles sadly and takes off his glasses to rub furiously at his eyes. It’s been a week since he last saw his mamá, and he is still not fully used to no longer living under her roof. He sniffles and shakes his head, chastising himself internally. He’s 19 years old. He’s an _adult_. 

This is no different than college, he rationalizes. Moving into this giant house, serving his Master, it’s no different than if he would have moved into a college dorm. Except instead of working toward a degree, he is working toward _eternal life_. There’s no reason to be homesick, he reminds himself, not when he has becoming a vampire to look forward to. He reaches for the smaller, more delicate knife on his Master’s shelf. 

Holding this weapon, he imagines Nandor wielding it on the battlefield. He closes his eyes and drinks in the mental image for a moment, allowing himself this brief sojourn from his work for fantasizing about his new employer. He pictures himself standing beside Nandor, just as immortal and just as powerful, and a slow, satisfied smile crawls across his face. 

Working for a vampire - _any_ vampire - with the promise of becoming one himself makes him positively thrum with excitement. In all of his wildest dreams, he had never expected to work for a vampire like Nandor. Nandor with his fanning, surprisingly soft mane of his hair and his flowing capes and those dark, expressive eyes that barely ever spare a glance in Guillermo’s direction. Nandor with his lilting, accented voice which barks at him one moment and shares camaraderie with him in the next. 

Nandor who makes Guillermo turn into a bumbling idiot. He opens his eyes, his fantasy collapsed, and he sighs as he begins to clean the blade. 

“Guillermo,” that booming, commanding voice echoes behind him. He jumps and spins around, a clenching, clawing feeling climbing up the column of his throat. He lets out an involuntary hiss of pain as heat spreads out over his palm. He slowly moves his gaze down at his hand, tentative to look even though he already knows what he will find. He mentally prepares himself for the gash on his hand, but his stomach still topples over at the sight of his blood dripping down his palm in fat rivulets. A thick, red drop cascades down to the floor of Nandor’s crypt, and he fights every urge to drop to his knees and scrub it as soon as it stains the wood. _Pendejo_ , he thinks, staring at the mess of his hand and the rag and the floor. _Stupid, stupid. You look pathetic. You’ve only been here a week and you’re already messing this up_. 

“ _Guillermo_ ,” Nandor grits again, and Guillermo is startled out of his self-deprecating internal monologue, looking up at his Master with wide eyes. 

Nandor’s dark, expressive eyes are certainly fixed on him now. More specifically, they are fixed on the wound on Guillermo’s hand. His heart races ever faster, and he distantly wonders if Nandor can hear that rapid thud with the same intensity as he hears it pounding in his ears. He doesn't dare ask his Master if that's the case. 

Those dark eyes are still transfixed on Guillermo’s hand, and he shrinks under the gaze. Nandor’s shoulders are curled inwards, leaning toward him, his hands reaching for him, fingers bent in such a way that Guillermo almost thinks he can see _talons_ poised to strike at any moment. Nandor’s lips are parted, his face slack. The sight makes heat coil deep in Guillermo’s gut. 

Nandor edges forward, his mouth gaping open, and Guillermo gasps; the blade clatters out of his other hand, toppling to the floor with a metallic scratch. 

“Guillermo,” Nandor repeats, still approximating the correct pronunciation of his name but never getting it quite right. “That blade is very old,” he mutters, still staring at the wound, his voice quivering almost imperceptibly as he says it. An apology bubbles up in Guillermo’s throat, but the look in Nandor’s eyes silences him. Guillermo steps away and winces as the harsh edge of the wooden table digs into his back. 

Nandor continues to stare at him, his fingers trembling as they hover in the air, edging closer and closer to Guillermo. Indecision is clear on his face as he stares at the wound. And Guillermo, for the first time in his short career as a familiar, feels _afraid_. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up and tears prick at his eyes as an invisible hand continues to claw at his throat. He wishes he could step farther away, but the table behind him keeps him trapped there like a caged animal. 

“The blade may have been dirty. You might get blood poisoning,” Nandor clarifies, and Guillermo deflates. He isn’t in trouble. Relief and unbridled affection cascades over him as he realizes that Nandor is concerned for _him_ , not for the knife. 

“Let me... This is the oldest remedy in the world,” his Master explains, his jaw quivering with each word. His tongue darts out and licks along his bottom lip as he stares through Guillermo lasciviously. Guillermo need not ask the nature of this remedy. 

A deep, primal instinct tells Guillermo to _run_ , to run from this deadly predator, but the sicker, more twisted part of him longs to let Nandor drink from him, to let him suck him down in deep gulps until he is empty. 

Ultimately, the instinct wins out, and he shakes his head, tentatively explaining as politely as he can muster, “No, Master, that’s alright. It isn’t a big deal.” His fear edges into his voice and he grits his teeth at how pathetic he sounds. He brings his hand closer to his body. 

His palm has begun to sting, now, and he knows he should excuse himself to clean it, but he is glued to the floor.

A cold, iron grip weaves around his wrist and his entire body is jolted forward as Nandor tugs him closer to peer at the gash on his palm. A shiver runs down Guillermo’s spine, in equal parts a reaction to the staggering feeling of being knocked forward as well as to the cold, delicious press of Nandor’s fingers to his clammy skin. “I do not want you to get tet-a-nus,” Nandor sounds out, his teeth on full display, terrifying and impressive. “That would be a great inconvenience to me.”

Guillermo’s chest heaves, and he clenches his fist to hide the wound on his palm, nearly crying out in agony at the stinging press. Nandor growls and pries his fingers apart with little effort, tugging his hand even closer to his face to inspect the wound. His Master is hunched over, his fingers coiled around Guillermo’s hand, and his face curled in a desperate snarl. Guillermo’s entire frame shudders as he relents and shoves his hand closer to Nandor's mouth without a word, hoping that his Master will get the idea. He doesn't think he would be able to speak. 

The vampire does not hesitate as he brings Guillermo’s hand closer to his mouth with a low, yearning moan that rumbles deep in his chest. The flat of Nandor’s cool tongue edges along the slice on his hand, and Guillermo’s face pinches tight in discomfort as his beard scratches at his skin. Nandor breathes out through his nose, and the frigid air drifting across Guillermo’s hand makes him tremble, his self-preservation again begging him to get away. Nandor holds tight to his wrist, and he begins to suck from the wound in longing gulps. 

The squelching, lapping press of Nandor’s mouth at his palm and the harsh, desperate breaths and growls heaved from Nandor’s chest are the only sounds in the deathly silence of the room. Guillermo himself can barely breathe, trapped in an inhalation as they are both frozen there, suspended in this moment. 

Guillermo is tugged ever closer, and Nandor is doubled-over at the waist, drinking deeply from him, his strong fingers shaking where they press at Guillermo’s skin. His hair fans down, hiding his face, so Guillermo cannot see the way his features distort in manic, feral pleasure as he quenches his thirst. 

Guillermo’s vision begins to blur, and he is suddenly realizing the gravity of the situation at hand. He wants to beg, to plead for Nandor to _stop_ , but terror closes his throat and he chokes out nothing more than a pitiful whimper. He is all at once terrified that this will continue, but also terrified for its end. He is unsure of how long this has gone on. Nandor could have been gorging himself for mere moments or for an eternity. His body begins to go slack. 

Suddenly, Nandor seizes his head back, yanking his mouth away with a harsh groan. There is something akin to guilt flickering in his eyes. 

Guillermo once again begins to back away until he hits the table with a hard thud, flinching as objects clatter out of place and break the unnerving silence. He holds the cuff of his sweater to the throbbing wound, cradling his hand close to his chest as though he can protect it. 

Nandor’s eyes connect with his, and his facial features relax into a stoic, unnervingly calm expression. He rights himself, standing tall and looming once again, and he stares down at his familiar coldly for a moment. They are both disarmingly, endlessly still, looking at each other across the small space between them. Guillermo’s stomach tightens at the way Nandor’s hair is mussed, his lips reddened and his beard stained by Guillermo’s own blood. He doesn’t know if the curling, heavy feeling in his gut is from disgust or from something else entirely. Nandor wipes at his mouth with the back of his palm and grits, “I hope I did not scare you, there, Guillermo.” His tone borders on mocking. 

“No, Master,” Guillermo lies reverently, becoming more and more ashamed of himself for clinging to his dutiful role despite the terror that still courses through him. He is afraid, so very afraid, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

“Good,” Nandor breathes decisively. “But Guillermo… I am very disappointed in you for being so careless,” he chides.

“I’m sor--”

Nandor interrupts him with a hiss. “Your blood is so _virginal_. It is very very disrespectful and irresponsible for you to walk around this house with such virginal blood. And to cut yourself like that!”

“I--”

“You must fix this at once.”

Guillermo’s thoughts come to a screeching halt as the reality of this order settles in. Nandor continues to stare at him with cold, unfeeling eyes. Guillermo breathes deeply and dares to whisper, "You could help fix it, Master. If you'd like."

Nandor pauses, blinking at him, and Guillermo begins to _hope_ , the feeling blossoming and warm in his chest. And then the edges of Nandor's mouth lower in a deep, disgusted frown. He shakes his head resolutely, and Guillermo's lower lip trembles. His entire body has gone cold. 

"No," Nandor says with a casual flick of his hand, turning away from him and toward the door. "If you would like to keep being my familiar, you can go find someone else to take care of this. I want you to be half a virgin at the least by this time tomorrow evening, Guillermo. Now clean up this mess and resume your chores."

Guillermo drops to the floor, his knees slamming against the wood, and he begins to scrub up the blood with his rag. He ignores the way his wound protests, instead focusing on tidying the mess he has made and internally cycling through a list of friends he could call to meet with tomorrow. 

He wonders then, for the first time but certainly not the last, if he might not be cut out for familiarhood. 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! comments and kudos are greatly appreciated.


End file.
